I have to say.

Its devastating. Its killing me. Its a threshold of pain beginning to end, to drift, and veer, and scatter into the list upon list of things you look back on with wonder and chicken. I see them. I want them. I cheer them. I yearn to foster them. I will them into baby bunnies and want them to fall asleep on my soft place above my soft abdominal platform of bounty, of wide, of infinite infinite. They are my David. They are my Webb. They are my Gibbs. They are the thing that I thought that I had in the palm, but actually wanted something less. Well, much different. Much resting on my own braided leather draw string ability.

But, between you, and I, and the stack of reading by my file cabinet night stand, I will not stop the rush of my hours for fear that I will break against the rocks of them.

So, I will buy them cool shots of spicy elixir. I will look at them deeply as I pull the pulp from my lime.

Because I love them like a hawk. Assuming of course that a hawk loves with aching reckless wild majestic spans of rosie checkered ticker paper euphoria. But, I've never shared a ledge with a hawk, so I can't say for sure.

But, believe me when I tell you how proud of you I am. My heart.

Its you, and this, and us. Its the luke warm cup of chef Boyardee at 3 in the am.

Its the one litter plastic shack of club soda fizz at 3 and 25 in the morning, on Thursday.

Call me,
Yours